Saturday, April 9, 2016

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

As Peter the squirrel walked toward the male human's garden, he knew
what he was about to do was wrong; it might even get him killed.

It was too late to change his mind, his eyes would not focus on
anything but the precious vegetables; the ones the male human so
tenderly worshiped. Peter ducked under the small barrier fence, walked
through the aging turnips wilting in the sun and approached the tall,
manicured tomato plants; swollen, red fruit hung rich and heavy on the
vines. Peter stood at the side of the
plant for a moment, admiring the sculpted handiwork of the male human.
Peter then began tearing the fruit from the vine, pulling each tomato
off in the most destructive way, ripping the fruit apart and throwing
it's red, bleeding carcass onto the brown earth. One tomato for ever
humiliation heaped upon him over the years from the male human; one for
every bark and scare from the male human's wicked dog, for the constant
fear, the loss, for every time he had sat trembling from a near-miss.
Peter tore and ripped, slinging the vile fruit in a blind rage; the rage
no longer needed the catalyst of his flawed reasoning, simply rage and
fear and anger and humiliation.

At some point, perhaps for lack of eligible fruit, or forgetting
exactly why he started, Peter the squirrel began to regain a bit of his
sense -- sufficient composure to exit the garden, travel back up his
hometree, glance down at the carnage and enter his house. Peter laid
down on his cot, pulled the flannel sheets over his head and slept for a
very long time.

The first time I watched Fried Green Tomatoes, yes I've seen it more
than once, it was the scenery that struck me the most. The outside
shots, at least, were filmed in my old stomping grounds. There is one
location in the film, a river that is flattened out and spills over a
dam, causeway? Not sure what its purpose is, but it is an odd sight,
then and now. I remember the place vividly from my childhood. When you
walk across, one side to the other, the entire river spilling evenly
over the top, you get the sense that you are alternately walking on
water or falling sideways along with the water onto the rocks below.
Heaven and hell. Death and salvation.

Recently, I started watching another show filmed in Georgia. Lo and
behold, another body of water from my past, perhaps an even more obscure
one at that. The stream has, or at least had, a unique ecosystem. It
flows primarily through gorges cut into stone so it was not as friendly
to the mud loving varieties of fish swimming around the Peach State.
Usually, when you have a body of water in Georgia, it fills with all
sorts of fish, cannot keep them out. This stream with its smooth pockets
of clear water was home to only one kind of fish - a lanky, strong
perch I've never seen anywhere else.

In the movies, both places looked exactly as I remember them, every detail. Heaven and hell. Death and salvation.

"I must still be dreaming," thought Peter the squirrel, "What a ruckus!"

"No I'm not dreaming," pinching himself on the ribs, "what could be causing all this noise?" he thought.

Peter threw back his burlap bed sheet and walked over to the small
round window facing the WolfAndMan garden. At this very early hour, and
to his surprise, everyone that he knew was out near the garden; all the
village people, the WolfAndMan, night creatures, day creatures, flying
creatures, even the scurrying creatures
were bravely defying the encroaching sun. No one seemed to be afraid of
anything, not even fearful of the more menacing creatures in the crowd.
What's more, they were all dancing and whooping like they just didn't
care. Even Garden Snail who, on principle, never danced was dancing; he
didn't even dance at that mandatory dance thing last year, which turned
out to be a horrible mess; he was sentenced to seven days jail but
enjoyed it so much that he refused to leave, which is also illegal and
punishable by seven days jail... well you can see what a mess. Yes
Garden Snail was dancing, even leading the dance with some crude song
about a sailor's wife. He did not even seem to notice that WolfAndMan's
wife had resorted to cartwheels and that he was standing within the
general trajectory.

"Has
the world gone mad?" Peter thought watching several village people
heartily stomping on his buried walnut patch, "ack... there goes my
nuts."

"Oh... so you better not wink at the sailor's wife!" Garden Snail bellowed.

Lap
lap lap, the river keeps time against our craft, pulling us through the
dense forest. Lap lap, lap, it strokes the muddy banks on either side
of us, moving earth in and out of the reddish-brown artery. On this
third day of our journey, just past the sun's apex, we round a bend in
the river. The forest darkens, the sounds of the river become muted. Our
guide, crouching at the rear of our raft, moves us close to the bank on
the left, places his right hand on his throat, closes his eyes and
produces a long, deep guttural sound. Within a few seconds we hear
several creatures in the forest responding with the same unhuman sound.
Our guide tells us that we are now entering the Other.

In less than an hour, we witness the first creatures belonging to this strange place.